


A Kind Barkeep and a Kinder Word

by LemonSchwaySchway



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, M/M, non-canon viewpoint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:25:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonSchwaySchway/pseuds/LemonSchwaySchway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bar in the middle of nowhere is bound to attract strangers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kind Barkeep and a Kinder Word

**Author's Note:**

> Canon compliant I suppose. Probably takes place during that weird little time where Cas was losing his mojo.

Marjorie never asked after the personal lives of the patrons who blew into _The Eagle’s Nest_. You never knew what you were going to get in a bar off the side of the interstate, smack dab in the middle of nowhere between two of the smaller towns in Oklahoma, and so the only information she was ever graced was what a given customer wanted to get off their chest. Marjorie always prided herself on how good of a listener she was, and she was always there with an open ear and a free shot of bourbon.

Tonight though, one certain customer seems to be just a bit… off. Marjorie doesn’t recognize him and he’s sitting by himself at the corner of the bar, but that’s not uncommon and certainly not what’s ruffling her. He looks so incredibly _sad_.

Grabbing a shot glass and giving it a cursory wipe down with a clean rag, Marjorie makes her way down to her mystery customer, only being waylaid once or twice by a regular’s cheery ‘ _how ya doin’ Marge_ ’. “Hey hun,” Marjorie starts in her most motherly voice, hoping it comes across as well as she wants it to with this man who couldn't be much older than her thirty-five years, despite how his hair is disheveled and his whole posture defeated. A man with eyes as despairing as those has known the hardships of life.

He turns those eyes on her and she freezes, her hand halfway to the Jack Daniels she always keeps close. They’re an _unearthly_ shade of blue and she feels entranced by them. Caught.

Recovering herself, she pours the man a full shot and passes it gently to him. “You look a bit down tonight, stranger.” He looks at the whiskey, tossing it back without hesitation. He doesn’t meet her eyes again. She pours him another, feeling her heart ache even as she says, “I’m here if you want to talk, hun.”

He’s staring at the amber liquid when he finally speaks. “I met someone once.” Marjorie nods, encouraging but not prying, her elbows now settled on the counter. “He was important. Very important to my… to my family.” He still doesn’t look at her, but she can see the beginning of tears in those ocean colored eyes. “I was only doing my job.” He cuts off abruptly, and bites at his lip. Marjorie knits her eyebrows a little trying to figure out where all this vagueness could fit ( _Is he mafia? He’s got a suit on, but it_ is _rumpled all to hell…_ ) but he starts up again after a long inhale that seemed to never come out.

“I needed him to complete my… assignment. It was fine. We were almost done, I was going to leave after. And then something…”

Marjorie set her chin on her hands, just waiting and not expecting. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” It was low, almost a whisper, only because she wanted to help this poor man. The other customers seemed to realize she was giving out her own special brand of therapy and avoided interrupting. The man heaved something that sounded far too much like a sob for Marjorie’s liking, but he went on before she could move.

“I fell for him.”

Marjorie sucked in a breath. It wasn’t that she was offended by this -she’d never be that close minded working in a place like this, what with modern drifters being what they are- but it was more the fact that those words seemed to be so much heavier than she’d ever know. Like saying them meant this man was admitting the worst flaw he could ever expose to another person. Like it _hurt_ him just to think them and completely broke him when he said it.

“Honey-” but she’s cut off before her consolation can go any farther. It seems she had broken the dam.

“I didn’t want to, I didn’t even think I could,” the man continues, his voice stuck in a throat very much unwilling to keep talking, “I thought it would go away because I didn’t think that it would ever happen to me. But then I meet him, the most important man in the world, and he hates himself. He’s perfect and he hates himself, doesn’t think I should even be around him because he’s so unworthy and I just want to shake him.”

He slows his breathing, his eyes shut tight against whatever it is he’s feeling.

Marjorie pours him yet another shot. He takes it two seconds later.

“Honey,” she starts again, but this time he doesn’t interrupt her, so she goes on, “This boy of yours just doesn’t have any confidence. You love him right?” The man nodded, hesitant at first but eventually certain, and he’s looking into her eyes again, pleading. “You just gotta care for him. Don’t let him push you away, especially if he hurts so much. Because you’re hurting too.”

The man nods even though it’s more of a confirmation than anything, one hand reaching up to his neck before he stops. He’s missing something there, and Marjorie can only wander at what it is. He sets his palm back on the counter and Marjorie really does see tears this time. She brings his shoulders into a hug that is both awkward and uncomfortable, but the man doesn’t push her away. Marjorie pats him on the back quickly and then retreats to her standing position behind the bar.

“Go to him, you two deserve each other, even if you’re both complete morons.” Her tone is kind and encouraging, and the man’s shoulders relax, his long coat sliding away from his frame like forgotten armor. Marjorie smiles softly, resting her hands on her hips in a mockingly stern manner. “Go and save this very important man.” And, apparently, those are the words this crumpled, ruffled, slightly broken boy in a cityslicker’s suit needed to hear. He looks up at her, not smiling exactly but certainly grateful, and sets his money on the counter like he’s giving to the coffer in church.

“Thank you, Marjorie Lewis. You are a true saint.”

He’s gone after that, his coat tails whispering past the door frame in a way that should not be humanly possible, but no one else seems perturbed. She picks up the much larger amount of money any number of shots she could give could possibly cost, only to discover the man has given her several thousand dollars.

Marjorie has to lean against the counter to make sure her knees don’t give out, but she grins to herself like she’s six again. So her momma always had been right.

_Be kind and the angels will be watching over you._


End file.
